


Shadows and Phoenix

by ElvenSorceress



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Angst, Canon Disabled Character, Canon-Typical Violence, Destruction, Future Fic, M/M, Pining, dark!Silver, implied Billy/Ben
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-03
Updated: 2016-05-03
Packaged: 2018-06-06 04:37:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6738469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElvenSorceress/pseuds/ElvenSorceress
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The war for Nassau has been fought and lost by all. Long John Silver is tasked with delivering the final hit to ensure it never lives again — killing the man who was once everything to him. Flint must find the man inside the monstrous legend and bring him back to life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shadows and Phoenix

**Author's Note:**

> *This is kind of a "what if" story where Silver disregarded any attempts to be reined in and found no limits to the power he could have as long as he didn't care and would kill anyone and everyone. 
> 
> *I will leave notes at the end for what my interpretation is of this story, but I wanted to leave it ambiguous and open so that the reader could decide what actually happens.

The whole of New Providence Island was burning. From a distance, it was blackened and smoking. There would be nothing left alive. There couldn’t be. No sun could reach through the clouds of smoke and ash. They were too thick and hung over the whole stretch of land. 

From the beach, the burning was worse. He covered his face with cloth so he could manage to breathe something that didn’t leave him retching and choking. But the air was no longer something that could sustain life. 

The island that had been green and lush was nothing more than crackling lumps of broken wood, broken brick, broken corpses. Any trees and tropical foliage had been eaten by flames. The places he’d known, the streets he’d walked… there was nothing left but hastily constructed gallows lining the shore. All of them with drying, decaying bodies. Left to remind, left to terrify. Pirates mostly. A lot of them he had known.

His men left him beside their longboat while they scoured the remains of tents and huts and what was left of their port city. The buildings that once stood tall and sturdy against hurricanes were now rubble. Crumbling, charred shells that held only echoes of haunted, doomed souls. If he listened hard, he could hear screams of those who had not survived. They were loud, defeating, carried on the harsh wind. 

The pristine beaches were red and not even the once clear, cerulean water could wash away the reminders. The sea here would be red until Nassau was bled dry. Everywhere there were bodies marred with blood and sand, entrails and various other organs splattered and mangled. English, Spanish, Maroons, pirates. All of them. Anyone who’d set foot on Nassau soil had been condemned.

The men returned with reports of nothing. Fires spread. Everything was wrecked. They assumed the Spanish soldiers made good on their threats and marched inland to ensure Nassau would never live again. The English had captured and sold anyone they deemed a slave, hanged anyone that smelled of a piracy, and taken anything of value. 

He supposed it was fair to desire an end to all of it. No one had the power to tame what Nassau had been. It would have destroyed them had they not gutted it first. 

It was fitting that this uncontrollable land of death and rebellion should be his kingdom. The bay of sunken ships, the city of rotting buildings, the charred and salted earth, the lifeless, useless citizens. No one else was qualified to rule such a place. None but the fearsome, one-legged creature.

The men argued amongst each other — if they should search further and put anyone remaining out of their misery or if they should let anyone who might be hiding perish from asphyxiation and starvation. Would the ship waiting for them to return would allow them more time when all goods and supplies had already been confiscated and they had only one purpose for allowing them ashore? Or would they would suffer punishment for already failing their mission?

With the cover of smoke above them, what could be seen of the sun was nothing but redness. Much like the blood in the water. He shifted his weight and sharp pains shot up the left side of his body, but there was no way to ease them. If the years had taught him nothing else, they had taught him that. Pain was the only constant. 

It had been explained to him once, a theory that a dead man had, that at some point when the body was experiencing too much pain, everything ceased functioning. There was only so much that could be tolerated and when it reached that point, the person either lost consciousness, lost sense, died, ceased to register any sort of sensation, or some combination of the four.

He had always wondered if it was truth or prophecy. If he had perished fighting this war, if his life was a nightmare he couldn’t wake from, if he’d slipped into madness, would it be preferable? Had he ever been able to feel or care about anything? He knew there were points in his life where he thought it might be possible, but they were all proven incorrect. 

He could kill anyone and feel nothing. He could watch someone he thought meant something to him be tortured to tears and screams and feel nothing. He could turn over anyone to the enemy, attend their execution, and still there was nothing. He’d been begged for help. He'd been begged for mercy. For compassion, for love, care, empathy, sympathy, comfort, consideration, support, leniency. There was nothing in him moved by such pleas. He let them all perish. 

Death was the only outcome if they did not complete the task that was put to them. He silenced the men with a sharp word. “Enough.”

They looked at him, wide-eyed and apprehensive, and at least two stepped backward. Away from him. 

“Find me a horse,” he said, tired of clinging to a staff for support. “And return to the ship. Tell them I’ll return within a day.” 

When one of them began to protest, he gave a look that sent the man scrambling behind the boat as if the mere gaze of Long John Silver was enough to put an end to him. It very well could be at this point. Who knew what was true and what wasn’t. 

The tall, brawny man who penned his legend spoke quietly to him. “We’re supposed to tell Rogers that you’re going to do this by yourself.”

Annoyance simmered in his chest. It was better when people cowered before him and followed whatever order he gave. Even the sorry excuse for a governor went out of his way to appease him. He feared for his life if Silver even breathed near him. Nothing less was acceptable. “You think there’s anyone else who could? There’s no hope of success if all of us are traipsing around this fucking island hunting him. He’ll never let himself be found.”

“And there’s hope of success if it’s you confronting him on your own?” 

His gaze narrowed and even this man who often remained the least afraid of him, having known Silver longer than anyone, shrunk away. It served him right. For doubting and certainly for insinuating failure. “Correct. It’s my life or his. Have you ever known me to pick someone other than myself?”

He received no verbal answer, but Silver could see the visions of blood and death and torture flashing through the man’s mind. Everything he’d born witness to since that night when some foolish fuck had dared call Silver half a man. 

The man urged the others into the boat and agreed to speak with the illusory governor and send someone back tomorrow. He sat beside his long-haired shadow and spoke something hushed and intimate into the other man’s ear, something meant for only the two of them. The length of their bodies touched and neither moved far from the other for long. The closeness that remained between the two made Silver want to shove his iron foot through their skulls. He should have left the fucking shadow on that island when he had the chance.

Someone brought him a frightened horse that had been found amidst the ruins of the tavern and used to aid their search. He spoke mildly enough that she allowed him to pull himself onto her back and direct her with his one good leg. The smell of torn flesh and decaying bodies was getting to his stomach. He urged her to take him away from the city and watched the boat leave the shore and head out to sea where it was blue and more water than blood. 

After the men were gone, he directed the horse inland and let her walk at the slow pace she wanted. The fires had spread over the fields. The grass was burnt away. The trees were black, smoking and without leaves. The homes he passed looked just as destroyed as structures near the beach, but the air was marginally clearer and he no longer had to cover his mouth and nose with black cloth. It was stifling anyway and blood loss was wearing on him. 

He’d been away from the worst of the battles but no one had escaped injury or suffering. His hair was clumped and heavy from a gash on the crest of his skull. His cheek bore a deep slice that left dried streaks all the way down his neck. His ribs were tender and likely the color of dark, mashed grapes by now, his leg was screaming and throbbing, and his hands were scraped raw and covered in blood. Only some of it his own. But he was alive. Nothing mattered but that. Nothing ever mattered but that. 

Her house was broken and in ruin just like everything else. There was no longer a garden, there were no animals in what had been the yard, and only half of the cottage wasn’t burned and crumbled. If his target was anywhere on this godforsaken island, it would be here. Had he finally succumbed to death? Or was he still hanging on by shreds and claws to the cursed land? He was stubborn. Perhaps matched only by Silver. It was true of so many facets of both of them. Only he was comparable, only he was equal. Only he would be an acceptable sacrifice if Silver wanted to live. 

He held himself up with the power of his arms and dismounted. Not as smoothly as he might’ve liked but better than it used to be. He tied his horse to a post and walked with ghost steps through the debris and crumbling walls. There was a door there at one point, but like everything else, it no longer existed. 

The man, his target, was sitting beside an empty fireplace. An open book propped in his lap. He was slightly bent over it as if unconcerned with the condition of his home, the assassin at his door, the state of his island. He was simply reading. Perhaps waiting. What else could someone do at the end of the world but wait for death? 

He didn’t look up or even turn, but he spoke from his place in the shadows. Shadows always stayed with people, haunting them, clinging to them, the only things left of those who had been loved. The man’s voice was low, rocky shores, land after endless years of nothing but sea. “You’re here to kill me.”

Silver rested a hand on the pistol tucked into his belt. He would never win in a hand-to-hand fight. It would have to be like this. Sharp, quick, sudden; instant and over. His fingers curled around the metal when the man… when Flint calmly closed his book, set it aside, and stood to face him. 

How long had it been since they stood in the same room together? He’d caught glimpses from a distance — dark whirls of rage and blood, the god of war fighting to the death for his home, for his lost love, for hope of what could be — but Silver couldn’t remember the last time they were face to face, alone, this close to each other. He refused to name any moment as the last time with Flint.

He was so faint, dimmed by years and loss and heartbreak. There was no surprise written on his face, no sorrow or regret. Nothing. He was the same as the torched earth and the broken city. Had the death of Nassau destroyed him? Had a different loss destroyed him? He made no move to fight or defend. He wore no weapons unless he had something concealed. He had to have something concealed, but he looked Silver over with dead eyes. As if he’d always been staring down death, waiting for it to finally take him. 

How many times had Silver been witness to? The beached Walrus held by snapping trees, the mutinous crew and man who won murder in Flint’s arms, the Floridian sea that wanted Flint’s soul, the Spanish soldiers who offered gold or torture, the broken trust, the vicious, mythical storm conjured by an angry, broken god, the Maroon Queen, Nassau’s reigning king, the infection, the betrayal, the loss, the victory of the governor, the injuries, the ruin. And now him. Flint was as unmoved and welcoming of death as he had ever been. Did he know it would come to this? Was he always expecting it? 

Did he know what Silver would become? 

He was far more villain than Flint ever had been. No matter what the stories said. Mortality was the only limit to Silver’s power and he’d perfected surviving at any cost. Everyone around him had suffered for it. Most of them had died for it. For him. As any loyal subjects did for their king. 

If all the years they might’ve had now belonged to him, he could live forever as the greatest pirate legend the world had ever known. He should feel remorse, pity at least. He should feel something but nothing beats in his chest, sings in his blood, or touches his darkened soul. Perhaps he was always meant to be a murderer. He never cared the way Flint did. He was made for this in a way Flint was not.

He drew the pistol from his belt, pulled back the hammer, and aimed. 

Flint remained blank. Impassive. Unimpressed, unsurprised. He stood with loose arms, relaxed fingers. He wasn’t going to fight. 

Did he not care at all? Would it really end like this? “You’re not even going to try and stop me?”

“Why would I do that?” His voice was gravelly earth, unsteadiness beneath Silver’s feet.

Did he believe the stories of Long John Silver, too? 

Why wouldn’t he? The stories were true. Silver killed with more ruthlessness than anyone. People were so fearful of him, they murdered in his honor simply to stay in his good graces. They sold each other out, they begged for mercy, they willingly died for him, and he could betray them, lie to them, trick them, blame them, and they still bowed to him. They welcomed anything he’d give them even when it was their own destruction. He had the infamous power and fearful respect that would be expected of any monarch. He’d been made a legend — one even more powerful and cruel than the villainous Captain Flint. Silver’s legend was real. 

He would never be anything else. Truthfully, he never had been. He was selfish to the core and when that selfishness was steeped in dark power and brutality, there was no other option for his fate. He once feared that Flint brought death to all those closest to him. He’d been terrified of it; he’d run from it. But Flint was not what Silver had become. 

Even at his worst, there was something inborn that kept the darkness from swallowing Flint completely. No one else saw it, no one else would believe it, but Silver knew. Flint’s heart was fire. Bright, all-consuming flames that dwarfed everything else. He’d been shut away in a place of horrors, he’d been stifled and tormented with death and loss and failure, but nothing could extinguish that heart. It could never be darkness.

“Were you not offered a pardon upon your capture if you brought Rogers proof of my death?” Flint asked and though Silver knew better than anyone how powerful Flint was, how Flint could have known that bargain was beyond him. “Is it not your life or mine?” 

A dry knot tangled in the back of Silver’s throat. “Is that why you’d just give up and let me kill you?” It wasn’t like the men he didn’t know offering to die for him. It wasn’t fear of being seen as useless in a king’s eyes. It wasn’t a need to prove fidelity to a wicked god. Flint knew him. “Then you can prove once and for all that you’re a better man than I am? And I’ll have no choice but to remember that forever?”

Silver didn’t care the way Flint did. He didn’t love the way Flint did. He’d never been able to love at all. None of his actions were ever propelled by love and certainly not one so deep and prevalent that it was a force of nature in its own right. But Flint’s were. Flint cared. He hated how people saw him but if someone he loved was on the line, he didn’t give a shit about anything else. Flint depended on love. That had always been his weakness. Even as it was likely his salvation.

Flint sighed and looked drained, not even flickering. “Do you want me to attack you? Would that make it easier?”

Silver gripped the pistol tighter and it turned his fingers rigid, white-knuckled, pained. And trembling. It was easy. It would be. One tiny movement of his finger, one small piece of metal, and it would all be over. Simple and removed. He didn’t care. There was no reason any of this should matter. 

Flint took a step toward him. Silver remained in his stance but his insides twisted as if he were standing on the edge of a cliff unable to balance. 

“I’ve never warded off death,” Flint said, still moderate and unconcerned. “I’ve been ready for it for decades now.”

Silver knew that. He’d seen it up close and hated it. Loathed it. It terrified him that anyone could give up their life so casually, willingly even. It had terrified him to think everything could so easily be lost. 

Two more steps from Flint and Silver finally forced himself to action. 

It didn’t result in a gunshot; it was a step backward.

Flint stopped and surveyed him. Had Silver appeared frightened? Unable to commit his assigned task? Would Flint see him as weak? Did Flint remember when he was? Did Flint remember what he used to be? What they used to be? 

A sudden blur of motion caught him in doubt and left Silver crushed against a table with Flint’s fist gripping the neck of his shirt and a knife pressed to Silver’s throat. Visions of first meeting this terrifying, impossible man flooded his mind. He remembered the anger, the fire, the sharp cleverness, the hard weight of his body, the unrelenting passion and unparalleled devotion that drove Flint forward. 

“Shoot me,” he demanded and Silver realized the pistol was still in his hand. Flint’s eyes were grey, no longer green. They’d been burnt away like everything else here. There was no light, no flame, no rage, no soul. It was gone. “End it.”

How could it all be gone? Had he done this? If Silver looked at himself, would he see the same lack mirrored in his own features?

He remembered the defeat on Flint’s face when they no longer fought on the same side. It was crushing, suffocating, and somehow inescapable. He’d known, they both had. But it had still felt like shipwrecks and drowning and gallows and burnt, barren earth and irreparably damaged homes. It was loss, and death. It had felt like dying. 

Maybe that was when he ceased feeling anything. Was that the pain that became too unbearable to handle?

“I made a choice a long time ago,” Flint said with the seductive, enticing softness that could persuade anyone to do anything for him. “In that cage on the Maroons’ island. Do you remember what it was?”

The pistol was warming in his hand, becoming an extension of his fingers. He was ready for this. He would be. It was simple. He’d done it a thousand times and it didn’t matter. It never mattered. “Life or death. You chose to listen to me and find a way to live.”

“The choice I had was never life or death.” Flint held up his knife between three fingers, as if it proved his words. “It was immediate death. Or more time with you.” The fist gripping Silver’s shirt released him and turned into a warm palm resting on Silver’s chest. It made soft fluttering curl inside him — delicate wings of birds and butterflies and things that had no business being associated with him. “You were the reason I decided I wasn’t ready to die. If this is what you need, then end it.”

Flint turned the blade and pressed it harder to Silver’s throat, and Silver remembered every night they’d spent talking until sunrise. When they spoke openly, fondly about everything. When he’d confessed his darkest thoughts and deepest worries and Flint responded in turn. He’d given Silver secrets that no one else on earth was privy to. He’d given Silver treasures far more precious than the whole of L’Urca de Lima’s cargo or anything buried beneath sand. 

He remembered being watched over while the cut to his leg was fresh. A faded haze of someone stroking his hair and soothing him back into sleep, someone holding his hand when stabs of pain were too much, someone sitting beside him murmuring soft words that sounded like ancient stories of heroes who challenged gods and fought for years to return home. 

He remembered fury and indignation and lies, and laughing over rum at four in the morning. He remembered bickering and competing and promises of doing what was needed if he wasn’t strong enough, he remembered heartbreak and betrayal and shark meat and a shoulder to help him balance. 

He remembered the winter the Walrus spent in northern waters far from Nassau and they’d slept in the same bed for warmth. He’d woken every morning with his arms and leg around Flint. Sometimes their fingers were threaded together, sometimes Flint’s hand was cradling his head. It was always warm and comfortable and peaceful. It felt better than anything ever had. That closeness, that contentment. There was no pain and it was never long enough. 

He remembered lying awake for hours in his own bed when it was hot outside again and there was no longer an excuse to sleep close together. He remembered lying awake and thinking of how Flint had loved a man, how he’d loved that man more than anyone had ever loved anything in history. 

He remembered longing for a measure of love like that. Even a breath of Flint’s incomparable love would sustain him for centuries. If anything could make him immortal, it would be possessing a piece of that fiery heart. 

He remembered feeling more than he ever had. His heart had been opened; it had been lost somewhere, in some time and place that he could never pinpoint. He’d been terrified. He’d never had a weakness besides intolerance for pain. Caring for anyone had only brought agonizing pain in every step, every breath, and he’d had to stop. 

What had the lack of such a thing done to him? Nothing gave him even a moment of happiness or pleasure anymore. Nothing brought him peace, nothing brought him joy, nothing made him believe he was worth kindness or loyalty motivated by something besides fear. He couldn’t care, he couldn’t feel anything. 

But he remembered now. He remembered companionship in the darkness, he remembered understanding and knowing and being known and not being alone. He remembered feeling, he remembered a partner, he remembered a match for his soul. 

Flint wasn’t his creator. Flint wasn’t why he became lost in darkness. He’d done all of it himself. He’d pushed everything away. He couldn’t let anything touch him. The only person he fought for was himself. He’d craved power and importance and independence, and there was no limit to what he’d sacrifice for it. He’d given everything and everyone. 

He remembered when screams fell silent. When pleas and cries were no more. He remembered lifeless eyes, still bodies, endless rivers of blood that never, never stopped. A heart didn’t need to beat for the red to pour out of someone. It kept going. Everyone kept bleeding until it was no longer an ocean of water that kept him afloat. 

He was covered in blood. Soaked in it, bathed in it. And what did it matter? The whole world was nothing but death. None of those people mattered. No one mattered. He’d known the people strung up on the beach, the ones lying dead in the sand. He’d known the ones who were captured and tortured and silenced. He could see their faces, he remembered their voices, he’d known affection from some of them. 

He didn’t care that they were dead. How could he? It wouldn’t bring them back. It wouldn’t change that he’d been the cause of their deaths one way or another. He wouldn’t trade places with any of them. It was better they die than he die. 

What had he become? He’d always been primarily concerned with his own fate, but he hadn’t always been a devoid shell of nothing. He felt nothing. Not for them, not for Nassau, not for himself. His body was battered and broken and so much was missing. Everything was missing. What sort of monster couldn’t even feel? What was left of him that was of any importance? There was nothing in him of value. 

Whatever he was now, it wasn’t worth saving. 

John uncocked and dropped the pistol. “I don’t want to be this anymore,” his voice was thin, breaking, snapping threads. “I hate what I am. I don’t feel anything because I know everything hurts. It's all suffering. There’s nothing but pain. There's nothing left of me.” He couldn’t breathe. He didn’t want to. “You end it.” 

The knife moved from his throat and Flint studied him. There was something like before in the way Flint looked at him. It wasn’t blank, it wasn’t sharp. Color returned to his eyes. Softness and light and concern and sorrow and gentleness shone in him, and James sheathed the knife. He stroked John’s head, a tender, reverent caress with fingers slipping through his hair.

Whatever held him together and kept him indifferent, apathetic, and legendary — broke. Tears leaked from John’s eyes. He clutched fistfuls of James’ shirt and sobbed when he was pulled into an embrace and cradled in James’ arms. It brought quiet, something serene and soft, and wrapped him in golden sanctuary. 

It felt like forgiveness. There was solace in Flint's warmth and strength. There was harmony in their union. It felt like that unreachable, incomparable thing that he’d never been able to attain but had seen so clearly in James. How could James hold him like this? He tucked his face against James’ neck and clung to him like salvation. 

It was long moments before either of them moved, but it still felt not nearly long enough. John needed at least a week or two of nothing but being held by the man who would always be his captain. 

When his wrenched sobs faded, James shifted until he could stand and pull John up with him. He was led to the part of the house that hadn’t been caved in and broken, and urged to wait on a low stool while James gathered items and boiled water. He knelt on the ground beside John and pressed a damp cloth to the gash on his cheek. It stung and John flinched and closed his eyes, but James was careful, as gentle as he possibly could be. 

He washed the blood from John’s face and neck, eyes focused on his work. Though he didn’t seem to be deliberately avoiding, his gaze didn’t meet John’s. His face was weary and guarded, but there was softness there, hidden in the pale green of his eyes, the relaxed muscles of his cheeks, the lines of his mouth. Smiles had been rare to those lips as long as John had known him, but he remembered their existence. He knew they were beautiful. 

He thought of long locks of auburn and how they were the color of red-golden sunrise when the light hit them just right. He remembered how they escaped from their tie and fell into James’ eyes and how he’d always wondered what it would feel like when wound through his fingers. He would run a hand over shorn hair now and perhaps feel the remnants of it, but his hands were covered in dried blood and grimy sand. 

James left for a moment, fetched and boiled more water, and held out his hands until John gave him his own scraped raw and bloody ones. They were soaked with the wet cloth and carefully cleaned, and then James finally looked up at him. John swallowed and didn’t know what to say, what to ask, what to think. James rested a hand lightly on the side of John’s left thigh, asking silently. 

John nodded. It wasn’t much of a concern any longer. He’d learned it would always ache. Some things he would never have again. 

James pushed up the loose leg of John’s trousers and unhooked the straps holding the iron boot on. He set it aside and brought the wet cloth to rough, scarred skin. It didn’t need to be cleaned like when it was fresh, but James washed the sweat and sand from it anyway, cool water soothing places where skin was rubbed raw and swollen. He pressed his fingers along sore muscles until the aches faded. Somehow, it made new tears slide down John’s face even though his pain was lessened. 

After fetching more water, James removed John’s real boot and rolled up the cuff of his trousers. He propped John’s foot in his lap and washed it, drawing the cloth over his skin in slow circles. He rubbed the pain from the overworked muscles of foot and then calf, and how could John accept such treatment? How could James offer it to him? 

James stood and helped John follow. “There’s enough water now,” he held onto John’s elbow and nodded toward a large metal tub. “Soak in it for a while and we’ll get the rest of you cleaned up.” He moved the stool next to the tub and left again for more water, and perhaps to allow John to undress in privacy though there was hardly any to speak of while living together on a ship and especially not while also sharing a cabin. 

He’d seen the freckles that cascaded over pale back and shoulders, he’d caught glimpses of bare muscular legs and chest, he had a very vivd image in his mind of a soft but thick cock nestled against freckled thighs and auburn curls. He was sure James had to remember what John’s body looked like beneath his clothes. Maybe he didn’t care. Maybe he’d truly never looked. Maybe his gaze had never lingered the way John’s had. 

He pulled off his torn and stained layers and managed to lower himself into the water. It was just warm enough and just cool enough that it slowly drew the aches from his muscles and made him believe that he was far from here in a place that hadn’t been ravaged by endlessly recurring battles. When James returned, he placed freshly drawn water over a fire and added the warmed water to John’s bath. It sloshed around him and brought tingles to his skin, and he wished he could be lying back against a warm chest with strong arms around him instead of lying back against the edge of the metal tub. 

James sat on the stool beside the tub and ran fingers through John’s matted curls and it almost didn’t matter that he wasn’t being held. James guided him down into the water until his hair was saturated and all the blood could be washed from it. At least, that was what John assumed was happening. The feel of strong, gentle hands rubbing his scalp and running through his hair was all he cared about. It brought warmth to his insides that didn’t burn and a pulse in his chest that wasn’t painful. 

After his hair had been rinsed, he caught James’ hand and held on, afraid it would too easily disappear from his grasp. He wanted to ask but questions wouldn’t form on his tongue. He wanted to know why James would do this for him, how could he, what it meant for both their futures, but was too afraid to hear the answers much less speak such words aloud. The feel of James’ fingers woven with his was something though. His chest felt ripped open and left with gaping, bleeding wounds, but he’d be all right if he could hold on and keep his bright torch, his guide in the darkness. 

James squeezed his hand and started to pull away. John held tighter. “Wait.” 

James stopped, leaving his hand clasped in John’s. He was open, he wasn’t hidden, John knew all his secrets, he knew the entirety of James’ heart, but something still felt unreachable. Perhaps it wasn’t something that could be salvaged. They’d been separated, divided, on opposing sides for too long. He’d given up precious time and privilege, and his place at James’ side. What had he done? How much blood was on his hands? He was deluding himself to think he was worth any of this. James' forgiveness wouldn't change anything. He let his hand drop into the water. 

“Do you trust me?” James asked, nothing presumptuous in his tone, but there was something almost expectant. 

It was a loaded question regardless. If he searched himself, he wasn’t even sure what the real answer was. Though he knew one thing for certain. “I want to.”

James stood but caressed John’s hair before he walked to the cupboards and gathered several items. He sat back down and held up a pair of scissors. 

That was James’ solution to something grand and traumatic, but he doubted it would make any difference to him. What did more or less hair matter? But he gave James a small nod and let him tie long, dark hair out of the way so that he could cut off the length of John’s thick beard. James then lathered soap in his palms and rubbed it over John’s face. 

The warmth and soothing touch made John’s eyes flutter closed. It would be so easy to rest his cheek in James’ hand but it left too quickly. Instead, James tilted John’s head, directing it gently, and drew a razor over John’s neck, jaw, cheeks, and chin. He was careful and slow, focused on his own actions the same way he’d washed the blood from him, leaving John to stare at his face and the way he concentrated. He dipped the razor in the bathwater as he removed years worth of beard growth, and John leaned forward, drawn closer without thought or words. He could almost feel breath on his face, he could imagine the taste of James’ mouth and how it might linger the way everything else of him did. 

When James had finished, John rinsed his own face with splashes of water and thought he might’ve seen a smile curve the corner of James’ mouth, but if he did, it was too fleeting to catch. James picked up a tin with some kind of smooth oil and rubbed it against John’s face and neck with just the tips of his fingers. It made him shiver and his heart beat faster even when James unfastened John’s hair and trimmed the ends of it as well until it fell just below his shoulders instead of a good halfway down his back. 

John ran his fingers through wet curls and tucked it behind his ears. It felt lighter even if it changed nothing. 

James picked up a mirror but held onto it and kept the reflective surface turned away. “I know you think there’s nothing left of who you were, and you’ll likely need to reconcile who you are now with who you wish you were, but you’ll never lose this person either. He’s still there.” He handed John the mirror and let him look. 

It shouldn’t be any different. It shouldn’t make him feel anything. It wasn’t a real change. It wasn’t completely altering the core of his being or erasing things he’d done or even offering penance for them. But he looked like a man with two real legs and a genuine, charming smile. He looked like a man who didn’t care for fighting or piracy, whose only dream in life was a treasure and a comfortable life, a man who’d never had his heart broken but dove into dangerous waters to save his captain and foolishly hoped they could escape everything together. 

John pressed his lips together and took deep breaths so he wouldn’t cry again. He’d been so young and naïve. He hadn’t known anything. He didn’t even know why he’d so fiercely aligned himself with James Flint. He’d been impressed. Beyond that, who the fuck knew. 

Did this person really exist anymore? Even a little? He ran a hand over his smooth jaw and was hardly recognizable. But he wanted to remember. His eyes were still vivid blue, so very blue amongst nothing but reds and greys. 

When he handed the mirror back, James slathered salve over John’s raw hands and wrapped them in dry, clean strips of fabric. He touched the wound on John’s skull with salve as well, then brought a thick blanket to dry John off and garments that had to have belonged to him. A large and loose, billowy white shirt and soft trousers a creamy shade darker than the white of his shirt. James helped him stand on one leg and dress, but John didn’t slide the boot back on. There was no point; he wasn’t going anywhere yet. Not now. 

James helped him to the table and set food in front of him — a meager offering of bread and dried meat, preserved fruit and cheese, but a feast as far as his empty stomach was concerned. James sat beside him and shared the meal in silence. They drank from the same bottle and it was so easy to slip back into this routine. It was so easy to pretend nothing had happened, that they were sharing food and space and each other’s life as they always had. 

Did James want one more night of peace and friendship before he took John’s offer and slit his throat? Would John have the strength to pull the trigger in the morning? Would he return victorious? Would they all leave without him and assume him a casualty like the whole of Nassau? The thoughts turned the food to heavy lumps in John’s stomach. The taste in his mouth was sour like bile and caustic like smoke. What was he supposed to do? Why did everything have to end in blood and destruction and death? 

Why couldn’t he have this? Sitting with James in a quiet house after bathing and being wrapped in clothes that smelled like James, sharing meals, sharing stories, sharing a bed… would James let him sleep beside him again? Even though it wasn’t cold and they weren’t on the Walrus and there was no reason James should let him? Would he anyway? Would James hold him against his chest and stroke his hair until he fell asleep? Protect him against nightmares? Protect him against the worst of his pain? Just as he used to?

“Are you finished?” James inclined his head toward the plate that now held only a slice of bread, half a jar of fruit, and bits of cheese. 

John nodded and let the plate be taken from the table and cleaned, as if there was nothing wrong with the house, nothing wrong with the island, nothing wrong with them. When James returned and sat back beside him, John could only look at him. 

He knew James’ face like the lines of it had been carved into his heart. Every freckle, every soft line, every strand of ginger hair, the way his gaze was so focused, and now so full of gentleness that only seemed to be there when he was looking upon John. He knew the curves of his cheeks, the slope of his nose, the soft wrinkles around his eyes, around his mouth, upon his brow. He knew everything and was still compelled to gaze upon him forever. What if he forgot something? What if this was the last time John would ever see him? 

In the grand scope of time, it hadn’t been that long since they’d sat like this and been like this. But it felt like it had been. There was absence between them, missing pages and gaps in a story, and even if they were like this now, what would the future hold? Would he lose James again? Would they revert back to this no matter what? It was so easy to believe they could always be like this. Was this something that was actually inevitable? He wanted to believe more than anything, no matter how foolish it was. John swallowed and finally managed words. “What happens tomorrow?”

James looked him over as if maybe he was marveling at John the same way John had been unable to look away from him. “Do you think you’ll be ready to kill me in the morning?”

“No.” John didn’t expect that to be so straightforward. Or honest. He hadn’t expected any of this. But nothing about it was false. Killing James would be killing himself — they were inexplicably intertwined. Even now. He never could bear the thought of a world without James. “Are you going to kill me?”

When James glanced away, John’s heart stopped. He had offered. He’d asked Flint to end him, end the horror of the thing he’d become, the villain who destroyed everything with complete apathy. Would Flint really do it? “You mean more to me than anyone alive,” James whispered, gaze distant until it finally returned, flared brighter green than ever. “You have my heart. You are my soul. How could I ever hurt you?”

His lip quivered, something inside his chest was broken and everything was pouring out. How was it so easy to reduce him to weeping? How could he still have a place in this man’s heart? 

James reached out and brushed John’s face with the back of his knuckles, taking away any tears. He guided John close to him with a hand around his head, fingers woven through soggy hair, and wrapped John in his arms, in warmth and love. He was loved. He could feel it. He could feel, and it made more hot tears slide down his face. 

He let James carry him to a bedroom hidden in shadows, untouched by destruction, and set him down on a soft mattress. James undressed only surface layers, removing boots, socks, belt and sash, but he lay next to John and brought him close. His whole body seemed cold until touched by James’ heat. Their legs tangled together, their arms slid around each other, and James’ fingers wove through his. He held John’s hand on his chest while his other hand ran lightly over John’s lower back, coaxing deep, serene breaths. John still smelled only fire.

What it would be like to have nothing between their bodies? It would be easy to reach out and feel that thick beard beneath his fingers. He could move closer and learn the taste of those lips. Why had John never asked? Why hadn’t he seduced James and given himself when they were close and it was feasible? They’d spent so many nights sharing warmth and breath, wrapped in each other’s arms, and he’d always wondered what more would be like. Was James rough and aggressive, possessive, demanding? Would he bend John over something and take until they were both thoroughly satisfied and lost in each other. Or would his touches be slow and careful, or even sweet and teasing. Would he kiss John while their bodies were joined? Would he hold him close and whisper elegant, heartfelt words that swayed John’s heart and mind?

He wanted that heat to surround him; he wanted to be engulfed in flames. John would bare himself to James now, offer his body and whatever existed of his heart. What if James didn’t want him that way? 

How could anyone want him after everything he was? People feared him, worshipped him. They wanted whatever power and favor he might generously grant them. He didn’t want that from James. As true as the legend of Long John Silver was, he didn’t want James to look at him and see anything but a man. He settled for pulling himself close and curling his fingers in James’ loose white shirt. There would be time. There had to be. He’d know James’ touch someday. He knew James’ love. He wouldn’t let go of it this time. Not for anything. 

James brushed dark curls from John’s face and rubbed slow, soothing circles against his scalp. “You’re thinking too much. Sleep. I’ll keep you safe. I promise.”

John held tighter and didn’t know how he could manage such a thing as sleep. “Promise me you’ll be here when I wake?” 

Still silence was the only answer he received. 

Could James not promise? Did he not want to stay? Would he leave or go to meet the others himself? Would John never see him again? “What will happen in the morning?”

“You’ll take your Flint, your bird, and leave,” James said softly, still rubbing somnolent circles that were difficult to ignore. “You’ll live. You’ll love.”

John swallowed hard and felt broken. “I don’t know how to love.”

With a touch to his smooth chin, James tilted John’s head up until their eyes met. “Yes, you do.” The words were adamant, spoken like irrefutable fact and it made John almost believe them. When James was so impassioned, it was easy to believe anything. “It’s why I’m here,” he said and rested his palm over John’s heart. “It’s why I’m with you, and always will be.” He pressed a kiss to John’s forehead that prickled his skin and left John’s heart aching. 

He loved James. How could he not love James? What was left in his heart, in his blood, in his soul that was worth anything but his love for James Flint? 

“Sleep,” James urged again. “I won’t ever leave you.”

John drew breath in time with the rise and fall of James’ chest and the gentle movements of his soothing fingers. He rested his head on James’ chest and knew his own heart matched the rhythmic beating that sounded in his ear. Perhaps he could know comfort and peace. As long as he had James. 

He didn’t remember sleeping but there was something refreshed inside him in the morning even if heaviness weighed in his chest as well. Flint nuzzled his cheek and urged him out of bed and toward food. It was quiet and they communicated without words like the team they always had been. He knew what needed to be done. 

He packed a few treasured items and didn’t change out of James’ clothes. They took everything they needed and set the rest to flames. 

Flint stood at his shoulder and they watched the house burn with the rest of Nassau. Whatever might be rebuilt on this land in years to come would have nothing that remained of him or of anyone they had known. Though silent, Flint stayed close to him. John offered comforting touches, certain the fire would be distressing, and let their foreheads stay pressed together for a moment.

They didn’t stay for long. They took his horse and rode over the burned fields, away from the bay, away from the British navy, away from everything that had been. On the opposite side of the island, they found an orphaned boat and loaded themselves and their belongings into it, and sailed away from Nassau forever. Flint watched behind them, eyes taking their fill of the island that was once home. John wouldn’t look back. It was nothing but ash and shadows, and he had all he wanted to remember.

**Author's Note:**

> *I don't usually leave notes at the end of fics but I feel like this piece is weird and you might like to know what what I was thinking when I wrote this. Really, I want this to be open to interpretation so you can think whatever you like, but if you want my thoughts... 
> 
> The intention of this whole story is that Flint is not actually there. Everything that happens with him is purely in Silver's mind. That's why most of it has that softer feel, something similar to Flint's dream sequences with Miranda, because everything that Flint does for Silver in this is really Silver doing it for himself but through the memory of the person he loves. 
> 
> That's also why there is no actual relationship development (beyond something that Silver would already know) because Flint isn't actually there in order for their relationship to progress beyond what it already had been when it was at its best. The Flint that Silver wakes up with and leaves with at the end is his parrot. 
> 
> It is a dark verse and this Silver is very damaged and affected by everything he's seen and done, even if he thinks he's not. But when I started writing this, the whole idea was that I wanted Flint to do for Silver what Silver did for him, i.e. save the man inside the monster and start Silver on the path to healing. So you can look at it like they meet again and run off together. I did want it to still be plausible because goodness knows they both deserve it. 
> 
> As far as what actually happened to Flint and anyone else, they're probably dead or somewhere far, far away. Ben is actually Not Really There as well; Silver sees him as Billy's shadow - the memory of someone loved who is still with him. Max is alive and happy though and living happily ever after with a hot lady who loves her. Because I will accept nothing else for her. :)


End file.
